PS 

3232 

B97 


W  A  LT 

WHITMAN 


WITH  THSPOETS 


AT 


£*£ 


v-^ 


N 


1 


THE  OPEN  ROAD. 

Afoot  and  light-hearted,  I  take  to  the  open  road, 
Healthy,  free,  the  world  before  me, 
The  long  brown  path  before  me,  leading  wherever 
I  choose. 

(Song  of  the  Open  Road), 


A  DAY  WITH 
W  A.  L  T 
WHITMAN 

BY  MAURICE   CLARE, 

Clarissa.  f 


LONDON 
HODDER  8"  STOUGHTON 


LIBRARY 

OF  CALUfp 
DAVIS 

& 


In  the  same  Series. 

Tennyson. 

Wordsworth 

Browning. 

fiurns. 

Byron. 

Keats. 

E.  B.  Browning. 

Whittier. 

Rossetti. 

Shelley. 

Longfellow. 

Scott. 

Coleridge. 

Morris. 


A  DAY  WITH  WALT  WHITMAN. 


BOUT  six  o'clock  on  a  mid 
summer  morning  in  1877,  a 
tall  old  man  awoke,  and  was 
out  of  bed  next  moment, — but 
he  moved  with  a  certain  slow 
leisureliness,  as  one  who  will 
not  be  hurried.  The  reason  of  this  deliberate 
movement  was  obvious, — he  had  to  drag  a 
paralysed  leg,  which  was  only  gradually  re 
covering  its  ability  and  would  always  be  slightly 
lame.  Seen  more  closely,  he  was  not  by  any 
means  so  old  as  at  first  sight  one  might  imagine. 
His  snow-white  hair  and  almost-white  grey 
beard  indicated  some  eighty  years  :  but  he  was 
vigorous,  erect  and  rosy  :  his  clear  grey-blue 
eyes  were  bright  with  a  "wild-hawk  look," — 
his  face  was  firm  and  without  a  line.  An  air  of 
splendid  vital  force,  despite  his  infirmity,  was 
diffused  from  his  whole  person,  and  defied  the 
fact  of  his  actual  age,  which  was  two  years 
short  of  sixty. 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

.  Dressing  with  the  same  large,  leisurely 
gestures  as  characterized  him  in  everything, 
Walt  Whitman  was  presently  attired  in  his 
invariable  suit  of  grey  :  and  by  the  time  the 
clock  touched  half-past  seven,  he  was 
seated  in  the  verandah,  comfortably  inhaling 
the  sweet,  fresh  morning  air,  and  quite 
ready  for  his  simple  breakfast. 

In  this  old  farmhouse,  in  the  New  Jersey 
hamlet  of  White  Horse,  Walt  Whitman  had 
been  long  an  inmate.  He  was  recovering 
by  almost  imperceptible  degrees  from  the 
breakdown  induced  by  over-strain,  mental  and 
physical,  which  had  culminated  in  intermittent 
paralytic  seizures  for  the  last  eight  years, 
and  had  left  his  robust  physique  a  mere  wreck 
of  its  former  magnificence.  Here,  in  the 
absolute  peace  and  seclusion  of  the  little 
wooden  house,  with  its  few  fields  and  fruit- 
trees,  he  lived  in  lovable  companionship  with 
the  farmer-folk,  man,  wife  and  sons  :  and  here, 
the  level,  faintly  undulated  country,  "  neither 
attractive  nor  unattractive,"  supplied  all  the 
needs  of  his  strenuous  nature  and  healed  him 
with  its  calm,  curative  influences.  He  steeped 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

himself,  month  by  month,  season  after  season, 
in  "  primitive  solitudes,  winding  stream,  recluse 
and  woody  banks,  sweet-feeding  springs  and  all 
the  charms  that  birds,  grass,  wild-flowers, 
rabbits  and  squirrels,  old  oaks,  walnut-trees, 
etc.,  can  bring."  Simple  fare,  these  charms 
might  seem  to  a  townsman  :  to  the  "good  grey 
poet"  they  were  not  only  sufficient  but  inex 
haustible.  Dearly  as  he  loved  the  "swarming 
and  tumultuous  "  life  of  cities,  the  tops  of  Broad 
way  omnibuses,  the  Brooklyn  ferry-boats,  the 
eternal  panorama  of  the  multitude,  his  true 
delight  was  in  the  vast  expanses,  the  illimitable 
spaces,  the  very  earth  from  which,  Antaeus-like, 
he  drew  his  vital  strength.  Out  here,  in  the 
country  solitudes,  alone  could  he  observe 
how — in  a  way  undreamed  of  by  the  street- 
dweller, — 

Ever  upon  this  stage 
Is  acted  God's  calm  annual  drama, 
Gorgeous  processions,  songs  of  birds, 
Sunrise  that  fullest  feeds  and  freshens  most 

the  soul, 
The  heaving  sea,  the  waves  upon  the  shore, 

the  musical,  strong  waves, 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

The  woods,  the  stalwart  trees,  the  slender, 

tapering  trees, 
The  lilliput  countless  armies  of  the  grass. 

(The  Return  of  the  Heroes.) 

It  may  be  doubted  whether  any  other 
poet  who  has  been  inspired  by  outdoor  Nature, 
has  approximated  so  closely  as  Whitman  to  the 
"  shows  of  all  variety,"  which  nature  presents, — 
from  the  infinite  gradations  of  microscopic 
detail,  to  the  enormous  range  and  sweep  of 
dim  vastitudes.  His  poetry  has  a  huge 
elemental  quality,  akin  to  that  of  winds  and 
clouds  and  seas.  "To  speak  with  the  perfect 
rectitude  and  insouciance  of  the  movements  of 
animals,  and  the  unimpeachableness  of  the 
sentiment  of  trees  in  the  woods  and  grass  by 
the  roadside," — this  was  the  standard  he  had 
set  himself :  and,  in  pursuance  of  this  ideal, 
he  had  given  his  first  and  most  typically 
unconventional  volume  the  title  "Leaves  of 
Grass."  No  name  could  better  convey  and 
sum  up  his  meaning  in  art, — a  commixture  of 
the  minute  and  the  universal,  the  simple  and  the 
inexplicable,  the  particular  and  the  all-pervad 
ing,  —  the  commonplace  which  is  also 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

miracle  :  for  to  Whitman  leaves  of  grass  were 
this  and  more.  "To  me,"  he  declared,  "as  I 
lean  and  loaf  at  my  ease,  observing  a  spear  of 
summer  grass," 

Every  hour  of    the  light    and  dark    is    a 

miracle — 
Every  cubic  inch  of  space  is  a  miracle, 

the  grass-blades  no  less  so  than  the  "gentle 
soft-born  measureless  light."  And,  avowedly, 
from  these  external  expressions  of  nature  he 
derived  all  power  of  song — 

I    hear    you     whispering    there,    O    stars 

of  heaven — 
O  suns — O  grass  of  graves — O  perpetual 

transfers   and  promotions,— 
If  you  do  not  say  anything,  how  can  I  say 

anything  ? 

Thus  he  had  arrived  at  declaring,  with 
august  arrogance  :  "  Let  others  finish  specimens 
— I  never  finish  specimens  :  I  shower  them  by 
exhaustless  laws  as  Nature  does,  fresh  and 
modern  continually." 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

Nor  are  you  to  suppose  that  this  was  a 
late  development  of  nature-worship  in  a  man 
suddenly  confronted  with  teeming  glories  and 
wonderments.  All  through  his  life  he  had 
been  soaking  himself  in  the  mysterious  love 
liness  of  the  world  around.  "  Even  as  a  boy," 
he  wrote,  "  I  had  the  fancy,  the  wish,  to  write 
a  poem  about  the  seashore  —  that  suggesting 
dividing  line,  contact,  junction,  the  solid  marry 
ing  the  liquid — that  curious,  lurking  something 
(as  doubtless  every  objective  form  finally 
becomes  to  the  subjective  spirit)  which  means 
far  more  than  its  mere  first  sight,  grand  as  that 

is I  felt  that  I  must  one  day  write  a 

book    expressing    this    liquid,    mystic    theme. 

Afterward it  came  to  me  that  instead 

of  any  special  lyrical  or  epical  or  literary 
attempt,  the  seashore  should  be  an  invisible 
influence,  a  pervading  gauge  and  tally  for  me  in 
my  composition."  Even  as  a  child,  upon  the 
desolate  beaches  of  Long  Island,  he  had, 
"  leaving  his  bed,  wandered  alone,  bare 
headed,  barefoot,"  over  the  sterile  sands  and 
the  fields  beyond,  and  explored  the  secret 
sources  of  tragedy  that  are  hidden  at  the 
roots  of  love. 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

Once  Paumanok, 

When  the  snows  had  melted — when  the 
lilac-scent  was  in  the  air  and  Fifth- 
month  grass  was  growing, 

Up  this  sea-shore,  in  some  briers, 

Two  guests  from  Alabama — two  together, 

And  their  nest,  and  four  light-green  eggs, 
spotted  with  brown, 

And  every  day  the  he-bird  to  and  fro  near 
at  hand, 

And  every  day  the  she-bird  crouch'd  on 
her  nest,  silent,  with  bright  eyes, 

And  every  day  I,  a  curious  boy,  never  too 
close,  never  disturbing  them, 

Cautiously  peering,  absorbing,  translating. 


Till  of  a  sudden, 

May-be  kill'd,  unknown  to  her  mate, 

One  forenoon  the  she-bird  crouch'd  not  on 

the  nest, 

Nor  return'd  that  afternoon,  nor  the  next, 
Nor  ever  appeared  again. 

And    thenceforward    all    summer    in    the 
sound  of  the  sea, 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

And  at  night  under  the  full  of  the  moon 
in  calmer  weather     .... 

Yes,  when  the  stars  glisten'd, 

All  night  long   on   the   prong  of  a   moss- 

scallop'd  stake, 

Down,  almost  amid  the  slapping  waves, 
Sat  the  lone  singer  wonderful  causing  tears 


I,  with  bare  feet,  a  child,  the  wind  wafting 

my  hair, 
Listen'd  long  and  long     .     .     ....     . 

(Out  of  the  Cradle  Endlessly  Rocking.) 

But  now  the  Stafford  family  were  assembled 
at  breakfast  and  Walt  limped  in  to  join  them. 
Courteously  and  simply  he  greeted  the  various 
members  of  the  household, — the  dark,  silent, 
diligent  Methodist  father,  —  the  spiritually- 
minded  yet  busy-handed  mother,  —  the  two 
young  fellows,  the  married  daughter  and  her 
little  ones.  He  was  the  most  domesticated, 
least  troublesome  of  inmates,  and  his  "  large 
sweet  presence"  imparted  something  to  the 
homely  breakfast-table,  something  of  benignity 
and  tranquillity,  which  it  had  lacked  before  his 
entrance.  "The  best  man  I  ever  knew,"  Mrs. 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT     WHITMAN. 

Stafford  called  him.  Her  sons  adored  him  ; 
and  her  grandchildren  were  almost  like  his 
own,  in  the  love  and  confidence  with  which 
they  curled  themselves  upon  his  great  grey 
knee  when  the  meal  was  over.  For  his  affection 
for  children,  his  sense  of  fatherhood,  was  a 
predominant  trait  of  Whitman's  character. 
Lonely,  since  his  mother's  death,  he  had  lived 
as  regards  the  closer  human  relationships : 
lonely,  in  this  sense,  he  was  doomed  to  remain. 
A  veil  of  secrecy  hung  over  his  past  life,  which 
none  had  ever  ventured  to  lift.  Rumours  of  a 
lost  mate,  as  in  the  song  of  the  Alabama  bird 
upon  the  shore, — of  children  whom  he  never 
could  claim, — hints  of  harsh  fates  and  imperious 
destinies,  occasionally  penetrated  that  close- 
woven  curtain  of  silence  which  covered  his 
most  intimate  self.  But  only  in  his  poems  had 
he  voiced  his  loneliness,  and  that  with  the 
tenderest  poignancy  of  yearning  for  "better, 
loftier  love's  ideals,  the  divine  wife,  the  sweet, 
eternal,  perfect  comrade"  .  .  .  .  .  .,. 

That  woman  who  passionately  clung  to  me. 
Again  we  wander,  we  love,  we  separate 
again, 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

Again  she  holds  me  by  the  hand,  I  must 

not  go, 
I  see  her  close  beside  me  with  silent  lips 

sad  and  tremulous. 


(Be  not  impatient — a  little  space — Know  you,  I 
salute  the  air,  the  ocean  and  the  land, 

Every  day,  at  sundown,  for  your  dear  sake, 
my  love.) 

And  this  was  the  man  who  had  been  blamed 
for  his  utter  lack  of  "  the  romantic  attitude 
towards  women  !  "  But  Whitman  was  no  light 
singer  of  casual  empty  love-lyrics ;  he  was  of 
sterner  stuff  than  that. 

No  dainty  dolce  affettuoso  I, 
Bearded,  sun-burnt,  gray-neck'd,  forbidding, 
I  have  arrived. 


As  breakfast  passed,  he  spoke  but  little  to 
his  companions.  His  ordinary  mood  of  "quiet 
yet  cheerful  serenity,"  lay  gently  on  him,  and  he 
was  content  to  sit  almost  silent,  emanating  that 


I,  with  bare  feet,  a  child,  the  wind  wafting  my  hair, 
Listen'd  long  and  long.  .  .  .  ,  . 

(Out  of  the  Cradle  Endlessly  Rocking). 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

radiant  power,  that  "effluence  and  inclusiveness 
as  of  the  sun,"  which  none  could  fail  to  note  in  him. 
When  addressed,  he  only  replied  with  the  brief 
monosyllable  "Ay?  Ay?"  (which  he  pro 
nounced  Oy?  Oy?),  and  which,  slightly  in 
flected  to  answer  various  purposes,  served  him 
for  all  response. 

The  meal  was  not  yet  over,  for  most  of  the 
family,  when  Whitman,  rising  abruptly  with 
that  startling  brusquerie  which  occasionally 
offended  his  friends,  observed  "Ta-ta!"  to 
everybody  in  general  and  departed — ' '  as  if  he 
didn't  care  if  he  never  saw  us  again ! "  remarked 
one  of  the  young  men.  He  left  the  house  and 
strolled  down  the  green  lane,  to  a  wide  wooded 
hollow,  where  the  stream  called  Timber  Creek 
went  winding  among  its  lily-leaves  beneath  the 
trees.  Here  Whitman  had  found,  a  year 
before,  "  a  particularly  secluded  little  dell  off 
one  side  by  my  creek  ....  filled  with  bushes, 
trees,  grass,  a  group  of  willows,  a  straggling 
bank  and  a  spring  of  delicious  water  running 
right  through  the  middle  of  it,  with  two  or 
three  little  cascades.  Here  (he)  retreated  every 
hot  day  "  (Specimen  Days), — and  here,  while  the 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

summer  sun  drew  sweet  aromatic  odours  from 
the  tangled  water-mints  and  cresses,  he  pro 
ceeded  slowly  now,  carrying  a  portable  chair, 
and  with  his  pockets  filled  with  note-books  ;  for, 
as  he  truly  avowed,  "  Wherever  I  go,  winter  or 
summer,  city  or  country,  alone  at  home  or 
travelling,  I  must  take  notes."  He  was  about 
to  make  sure  of  a  morning's  unmitigated  delight, 
— in  the  spot  where  he  sought,  "every  day, 
seclusion — every  day  at  least  two  or  three  hours 
of  freedom,  bathing,  no  talk,  no  bonds,  no 
dress,  no  books,  no  manners." 

And  each  step  of  the  way  was  a  pure  joy 
to  him.  "What  a  day!"  he  murmured,  "what 
an  hour  just  passing !  the  luxury  of  riant  grass 
and  blowing  breeze,  with  all  the  shows  of  sun 
and  sky  and  perfect  temperature,  never  before 
so  filling  me  body  and  soul !  "  So  rhapsodizing 
inwardly  and  drinking  in  the  beauty  of  sight 
and  sound,  he  proceeded,  "still  sauntering  on, 
to  the  spring  under  the  willows — musical  as  soft 
clinking  glasses — pouring  a  sizeable  stream,  pure 
and  clear,  out  from  its  vent  where  the  bank 
arches  over  like  a  great  brown  shaggy  eyebrow 
or  mouth-roof — gurgling,  gurgling  ceaselessly  ; 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

meaning,  saying   something,  of  course   (if  one 
could  only  translate  it.)  "    (Specimen  Days.) 

Here  he  sat  down  awhile  and  revelled  in 
sheer  joy  of  summer  opulence.  He  enumerated 
to  himself, — laying  a  store  of  lovely  recollections 
for  future  reference  in  darker  days, — "The 
fervent  heat,  but  so  much  more  endurable  in 
this  pure  air — the  white  and  pink  pond-blossoms, 
with  great  heart-shaped  leaves,  the  glassy 
waters  of  the  creek,  the  banks,  with  dense 
bushery  and  the  picturesque  beeches  and  shade 
and  turf;  the  tremulous,  reedy  call  of  some 
bird  from  recesses,  breaking  the  warm,  indolent, 
half-voluptuous  silence  :  the  prevailing  delicate, 
yet  palpable,  spicy,  grassy,  clovery  perfume  to 
my  nostrils, — and  over  all,  encircling  all,  to  my 
sight  and  soul,  the  free  space  of  the  sky,  trans 
parent  and  blue,"  (Specimen  Days,}  and,  "from 
old  habit,  pencilled  down  from  time  to  time, 
almost  automatically,  moods,  sights,  hours,  tints 
and  outlines,  on  the  spot."  Minutes  like  these 
were  the  seed  time  of  his  art,  if  that  can  be 
called  art  which  was  almost  one  with  Nature. 
For  Walt  Whitman  had,  from  the  very  outset, 
striven  to  obtain  that  fusion  of  identity  with 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

Natura  Benigna,  which,  even  if  only  momentary, 
bequeathes  a  lasting  impression  on  the  mind. 
He  had  always  felt,  with  regard  to  his  pro 
ductions,  that  "There  is  a  humiliating  lesson 
one  learns,  in  serene  hours,  of  a  fine  day  or 
night.  Nature  seems  to  look  on  all  fixed-up 
poetry  and  art  as  something  almost  impertinent. 
.  .  .  If  I  could  indirectly  show  that  we  have 
met  and  fused,  even  if  but  only  once,  but  enough 

—  that  we   have   really   absorbed    each    other 
and  understood  each  other," — it  sufficed   him. 
Nothing  less  did  :  for  he  recognised  that  "after 
you  have  exhausted  what  there  is  in  business, 
politics,   conviviality,    love   and   so   on  —  have 
found  that  none  of  these  finally  satisfy,  or  per 
manently    wear  —  what    remains  ?        Nature 
remains :       to    bring    out    from    their    torpid 
recesses,  the  affinities  of  a  man  or  woman  with 
the  open  air,  the  trees,  fields,  changes  of  seasons 

—  the  sun  by  day  and  the  stars  of  heaven  by 
night."     And,  while  confessing,  "  I  cannot  divest 
my   appetite    of   literature,  yet   I   find   myself 
eventually  trying  it  all  by  Nature — first  premises 
many  call  it,  but  really  the  crowning  results  of 
all,  laws,  tallies   and  proofs    ....    I   have 
fancied  the  ocean  and  the  daylight,  the  mountain 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

and  the  forest,  putting  their  spirit  in  a  judgment 
on  our  books.  I  have  fancied  some  disem 
bodied  soul  giving  its  verdict."  (Specimen  Days.) 
He  was  "so  afraid,"  as  he  phrased  it,  "  of  drop 
ping  what  smack  of  outdoors  or  sun  or  starlight 
might  cling  to  the  lines — I  dared  not  try  to 
meddle  with  or  smooth  them,"  To  be  "  made 
one  with  Nature,"  in  a  deeper  sense  than  ever 
any  man  yet  had  known,  was,  in  short,  his 
ideal, — and,  one  may  say,  his  achievement.  For 
the  verdict  of  the  average  person,  vacant  of 
his  glorious  gains,  he  did  not  care.  Regardless 
of  ridicule,  calumny,  contumely,  he  had  pursued 
his  own  way  to  his  own  goal :  till  he  was  able  at 
last  to  realize  his  dream  of 

Me  imperturbe,  standing  at  ease  in  Nature, 
Master  of  all,  or  mistress  of  all — aplomb  in 
the  midst  of  irrational  things. 

And  now  he  was  an  old  man,  to  look  upon, 
— yet  a  man  surcharged  with  electric  vigour 
and  daily  renewing  his  physical  strength  from 
the  fountains  of  eternal  youth.  He  was  just 
as  full  of  elan,  of  enterprise,  of  the  glorious 
hunger  for  adventure,  as  when  first  he  had 
proclaimed, — 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

Afoot  and  light-hearted,  I  take  to  the  open 

road, 

Healthy,  free,  the  world  before  me, 
The   long  brown  path  before  me,    leading 

wherever  I  choose. 

Allons  !  to  that  which  is  endless,  as  it  was 

beginningless, 
To   undergo  much,  tramps  of  days,  rests 

of  nights, 
To  merge  all  in  the  travel  they  tend  to, 

and  the  days  and  nights  they  tend  to, 
Again    to    merge    them    in    the    start    of 

superior  journeys  ; 
To  see  nothing  anywhere  but  what  you 

may  reach  it  and  pass  it, 
To  look  up  or  down  no  road  but  it  stretches 

and  waits  for  you — however  long,  but 

it  stretches  and  waits  for  you  ; 
To  see  no  being,  not  God's  or  any,  but  you 

also   go   thither. 

(Song  of  the  Open  Road.) 

The  big  grey  man  expanded  almost  visibly 
in  the  sun-steeped  air,  as  he  absorbed  the 
exquisite  minutiae  of  the  green  dell  into  his 


THE  LUMBERMEN'S  CAMP, 

Lumbermen  in  their  winter  camp,  day-break  in  the 

woods,  stripes  of  snow  on  the  limbs  of  trees,  the 

occasional  snapping, 
The  glad  clear  sound  of  one's  own  voice,  the  merry 

song,  the  natural  life  of  the  woods,  the  strong 

day's  work, 
The  blazing  fire  at  night,  the  sweet  taste  of  supper, 

the  talk,   the   bed   of  hemlock   boughs,  and  the 

bear-skin. 

(Song  of  the  Broad- Axe), 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

mind,  and  assimilated  the  music  of  the  wind  and 
stream.      Sound  of  any  sort  had  a  powerfully 
emotional  effect  upon  him.       It  was  not  mere 
fancy  on  Whitman's  part  that  "  he  and  Wagner 
made  one  music."  With  music  on  the  most  colossal 
scale  his  poems  are  fraught  from  end  to  end  : 
and  while  their  technical    form   may  be  less 
finished,   less    perfected,   than    those  of  other 
authors,  —  while  they*  have  less  melody,  they 
have   the   multitudinous   harmony,  the   superb 
architectonics,    the      choral .    and      symphonic 
movement    of   the    noblest    masters.       "  Such 
poems  as  The  Mystic  Trumpeter,  Out  of  the  Cradle, 
Passage  to  India,  have  the  genesis  and  exodus 
of  great  musical  compositions."    And  to  many 
auditors,    the   "vast  elemental   sympathy"   of 
this  unique  personality  can  only  be  compared 
to  that  of  Beethoven,   whom  he  said  he  had 
"discovered  as  a    new   meaning    in    music:" 
Beethoven,  by  whom  he  allowed  he  "had  been 
carried  out  of  himself,  seeing,  hearing  wonders :" 
Beethoven,  who,  like  himself,  sought  inspiration 
continuously    in    the    magic    and    mystery    of 
Nature. 

And  thus,  all  Whitman's  finest  poems  have 
a  processional  air,  like  the  evolution  of  some 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

great  symphony — a  pageantry  of  sound,  so  to 
speak,  which  whirls  one  forward  like  a  leaf 
upon  a  resistless  stream.  Sometimes  he  is 
superbly  triumphant,  as  in  his  inaugural  Song 
of  Myself: 

With  music  strong  I  come — with  my  cornets 

and  my  drums, 
I  play  not  marches   for   accepted   victors 

only, 
I  play  great  marches  for  conquer'd  and  slain 

persons. 

Sometimes  he  translates  the  sonorities  of 
the  air  into  immortal  effluences  of  meaning  : 
Hark,  some  wild  trumpeter — some  strange 

musician, 
Hovering  unseen  in  air,  vibrates  capricious 

tunes  to-night 

Blow,  trumpeter,  free  and  clear — I  follow 

thee, 

While  at  thy  liquid  prelude,  glad,  serene, 
The  fretting  world,  the  streets,  the  noisy 

hours  of  day,  withdraw  ; 

or  he  blends  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  beautiful 
resonance  into,  surely,  the  strangest  yet  loveliest 
love-song  ever  yet  set  down  : 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

I  heard  you,  solemn-sweet  pipes  of  the  organ, 
as  last  Sunday  morn  I  pass'd  the  church, 

Winds  of  autumn,  as  I  walked  the  woods  at 
dusk,  I  heard  your  long-stretch'd  sighs 
up  above  so  mournful, 

I  heard  the  perfect  Italian  tenor  singing  at 
the  opera,  I  heard  the  soprano  in  the 
midst  of  the  quartet  singing  ; 

Heart  of  my  love !  you  too  I  heard  mur 
muring  low  through  one  of  the  wrists 
around  my  head, 

Heard  the  pulse  of  you,  when  all  was  still, 
ringing  little  bells  last  night  under 
my  ear. 

But  now  the  precious  hour  had  arrived, 
which  to  Whitman  spelt  revivification  and 
rejuvenescence  above  all  others  :  the  time  when, 
stripped  of  all  externals,  he  became  the  very 
child  of  Mother  Earth.  In  his  own  description 
of  the  process  : 

"A  light  south-west  wind  was  blowing 
through  the  tree-tops.  It  was  just  the  place 

and  time  for  my  Adamic  air-bath So, 

hanging  clothes  on  a  rail  near  by,  keeping  old 
broadbrim  straw  on  head  and  easy  shoes  on  feet 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

*  .  .  .  .  then  partially  bathing  in  the  clear 
waters  of  the  running  brook — taking  everything 
very  leisurely,  with  many  rests  and  pauses  .  . 
.  .  slow  negligent  promenades  on  the  turf  up 
and  down  in  the  sun  .  .  .  somehow  I  seemed 
to  get  identity  with  each  and  everything  around 
me,  in  its  condition.  Perhaps  the  inner,  never- 
lost  rapport  we  hold  with  earth,  light,  air,  trees, 
etc.,  is  not  to  be  realized  through  eyes  and  mind 
only,  but  through  the  whole  corporeal  body." 
(Specimen  Days.) 

Power  and  joy  and  exhilaration  infused  his 
whole  frame.  "  Here,"  he  murmured,  "  I 
realize  the  meaning  of  that  old  fellow  who  said 
he  was  seldom  less  alone  than  when  alone. 
Never  before  did  I  get  so  close  to  Nature  : 
never  before  did  she  come  so  close  to  me." 

And  a  miracle  of  transient  transformation 
had  been  wrought  upon  him.  His  youth  was 
"  renewed  like  the  eagle's,"  his  lameness 
hardly  perceptible,  as  he  reluctantly  emerged 
from  the  sweet  water,  and,  having  dried 
himself  in  the  sun-glow,  still  more  reluctantly 
dressed  again.  This  was  no  longer  the 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

"  battered,  wrecked  old  man,"  the  veteran  of 
life-long  battles  with  the  world  :  but  one  who 
could  realize  with  keenest  perception  every 
sensation  of  stalwart  strength.  He  might  have 
been,  at  this  moment,  one  of  his  own  "  lumber 
men  in  their  winter  camp,"  enjoying 

Day-break  in  the  woods, 
stripes  of  snow  on  the  limbs  of  trees, 
the  occasional  snapping, 

The  glad  clear  sound  of  one's  own  voice, 
the  merry  song,  the  natural  life  of  the 
woods,  the  strong  day's  work, 

The  blazing  fire  at  night,  the  sweet  taste  of 
supper,  the  talk,  the  bed  of  hemlock 
boughs,  and  the  bear-skin. 

(Song  of  the  Broad' Axe.) 


or   a  scion   of  the    "  youthful   sinewy  races, 
whom  he  had  chanted  in  Pioneers : 


Gome,  my  tan-faced  children, 
Follow  well  in  order,  get  your  weapons 
ready ; 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT     WHITMAN. 

Have  you  your  pistols  ?  have  you  your 
sharpedged  axes  ? 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  !    .    .    . 

All  the  past  we  leave  behind  ! 
We  debouch  upon  a  newer,  mightier  world, 

varied  world  ; 

Fresh  and  strong  the  world  we  seize,  world 
of  labour  and  the  march, 
Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

Here  at  last  was  the  true  Walt  Whitman, 
superabundant  in  splendid  vitality  and  conscious 
of  mental  and  physical  power  through  every 
fibre  of  his  being. 

One  last  longing,  loving  look  he  cast  upon 
the  creek  before  returning  homewards.  The 
magnificent  mid-noon  lay  full-tide  over  all, 
brimming  the  uttermost  shores  of  beauty  :  it 
was  the  very  apotheosis  of  summer,  the  tangible 
realization  of  Whitman's  prophetic  vision. 

All,  all  for  immortality, 

Love  like  the  light  silently  wrapping  all, 

Nature's  amelioration  blessing  all, 


THE  PIONEERS. 


All  the  past  we  leave  behind ! 
We  debouch  upon  a  newer,  mightier  world, 


Down  the  edges,  through  the  passes,  up  the  mountains 
steep.  .  . 

Pioneers  !   O  Pioneers  ! 

(Pioneers.) 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

The  blossoms,  fruits  of  ages,  orchards  divine 

and  certain, 
Forms,   objects,    growths,    humanities,    to 

spiritual  images  ripening. 
Give  me,  O  God,  to  sing  that  thought, 
Give   me,  give  him   or  her   I  love  this 

quenchless  faith, 
In  Thy  ensemble,  whatever  else  withheld 

withhold  not  from  us 
Belief  in  plan  of  Thee  enclosed  in  Time 

and   Space, 
Health,  peace,  salvation  universal. 

Is  it  a  dream  ? 

Nay  but  the  lack  of  it  the  dream, 

And  failing  it  life's  lore  and  wealth  a  dream, 

And  all  the  world  a  dream. 


Now  he  passed  back  up  the  lane  to  the 
little  farmstead,  and,  entering  in,  found  the 
midday  meal  was  served.  Mr.  Stafford  was 
already  seated  and  about  to  say  grace.  Whit 
man  stopped  as  he  passed  behind  the  farmer's 
chair,  and  clasping  Stafford's  head  in  his  large, 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

well-formed  hands,  became  an  actual  part,  as  it 
were,  in  the  benediction.  Then  he  took  his 
seat  in  silence.  But  that  irrepressible  joyous- 
ness  which  sometimes,  after  working  on  a 
manuscript,  seemed  to  shine  from  his  face  and 
pervade  his  whole  body, — that  "singular  bright 
ness  and  delight,  as  though  he  had  partaken  of 
some  divine  elixir" — was  visible  now  upon  his 
noble  features.  He  talked  a  little,  in  simple 
homely  phrases,  —  giving  little  idea  of  the 
voluminous  reserve  force  within  him  :  telling 
little  incidents  of  the  War  of  Secession  and 
anecdotes  of  his  hospital  experiences.  He  had 
been  a  volunteer  nurse  of  exquisite  patience 
and  admirable  efficiency  throughout  those 
terrible  years  1862-64.  His  passionate  tender 
ness  and  sympathy  then  found  vent :  and  he 
gave  his  best  and  uttermost :  believing  that  (in 
his  own  words)  "  these  libations,  extatic  life- 
pourings,  as  it  were,  of  precious  wine  or  rose- 
water  on  vast  desert-sands  or  great  polluted 
rivers,  taking  chances  of  no  return, — what  are 
they  but  the  theory  and  practice  ....  of 
Christ  or  of  all  divine  personality?"  For  in  the 
human,  however  defaced,  he  still  could  discern 
the  divine  and  immortal.  The  worth  of  every 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

individual  soul  was  the  pivot  of  all  his  arts  and 
beliefs  : 

"  Because,  having  looked  at  the  objects  of 
the  Universe,  I  find  there  is  no  one,  nor  any 
particle  of  one,  but  has  reference  to  the  soul." 

Usually,  to  his  sensitive  mind,  able  as  it 
was  to  realise  with  the  keenest  sympathy 
every  phase  of  human  suffering,  the  memories 
of  carnage  were  repulsive.  By  day  he  could 
shut  them  off  :  but  by  night,  he  said, 

In  clouds  descending,  in  midnight  sleep,  of 

many  a  face  in  battle, 
Of  the  look  at  first  of  the  mortally  wounded, 

of  that  indescribable  look, 
Of   the   dead   on   their   backs,    with  arms 
extended  wide — 

I  dream,  I  dream,  I  dream. 

(Old  War  Dreams.) 

But  he  had  faith  in  the  future  of  his 
country,  vast  hopes  in  the  purification  wrought 
out  by  those  sorrowful  years :  and  his  poem 
To  the  Man-of-War  Bird  was  but  one  of  many 
allegories  in  which  he  saw  his  beloved  America 
rising  transfigured  from  the  ashes  of  the  past. 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

Thou  who   hast   slept  all   night   upon   the 

storm, 

Waking  renew'd  on  thy  prodigious  pinions, 
(Burst    the   wild    storm  ?     above    it    thou 

ascended'st, 
And    rested    on    the  sky,  thy    slave    that 

cradled  thee,)    .... 

Thou  born  to  match  the  gale,  (thou  art 

all  wings,) 
To  cope  with  heaven  and  earth  and  sea  and 

hurricane, 

Thou  ship  of  air  that  never  furPst  thy  sails, 
Days,  even    weeks    untired    and  onward, 

through  spaces,  realms  gyrating, 
At  dusk  that  look'st  on  Senegal,  at  morn 

America, 
That  sport'st  amid  the   lightning-flash   and 

thunder-cloud, 
In  them,  in  thy  experiences,  had'st  thou 

my  soul, 
What  joys  !  what  joys  were  thine  ! 

and  out  of  the  smoke  and  din  of  conflict,  he 
believed,  should  spring  "  the  most  splendid  race 
the  sun  ever  shone  upon,"  knit  in  sublime  unity 
of  brotherhood. 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

Dinner  over,  Whitman  retired  awhile  to 
his  own  apartment :  that  fearful  chaos  of  pell- 
mell  untidiness  which  was  the  delight  of  its 
occupant  and  the  despair  of  Mrs.  Stafford.  An 
indescribable  confusion  it  was  of  letters,  news 
papers  and  books, — an  inkbottle  on  one  chair, 
a  glass  of  lemonade  on  another,  a  pile  of  MSS. 

on  a  third,  a  hat  on  the  floor Imper- 

turbably  composed,  the  poet  surveyed  his 
best-loved  books,  —  Scott,  Garlyle,  Tennyson, 
Emerson,  —  translations  of  Homer,  Dante, 
Hafiz,  Saadi :  renderings  of  Virgil,  Epictetus, 
Marcus  Aurelius, — versions  of  Spanish  and 
German  poets  :  most  well-worn  of  all,  Shake 
speare  and  the  Bible.  Finally,  out  of  the 
heterogeneous  collection  he  selected  George 
Sand's  Consuelo  and  seated  himself  at  the 
window  with  it.  On  another  afternoon  he 
would  have  returned  to  the  creek,  but  to-day 
he  was  expecting  a  friend. 

And  friends,  with  him,  did  not  mean  mere 
acquaintances  :  still  less  those  visitors  who  were 
brought  by  vulgar  curiosity.  Although  the  best 
of  comrades  and  one  who  found  companionship 
most  exhilarating,  he  had  a  bed-rock  of  deep 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

reserve,  and  "to  such  as  he  did  not  like,  he 
became  as  a  precipice."  But  to  those  with 
whom  he  was  truly  en  rapport, — whether  by 
letter  or  in  the  flesh, — he  was  spendthrift  of  his 
personality.  His  English  literary  friends, — 
Tennyson,  Rossetti,  Buchanan,  Browning  and 
others,  had  supplied  the  financial  aid  which 
enabled  him  to  recuperate  at  Timber  Greek  : 
compatriots  such  as  Emerson,  John  Burroughs, 
and  a  host  of  old-time  friends  were  welcome 
visitors.  But  nothing  in  his  life  or  in  his 
literary  fortunes,  he  declared,  had  brought 
him  more  comfort  and  support — nothing  had 
more  spiritually  soothed  him — than  the  "warm 
appreciation  and  friendship  of  that  true  full- 
grown  woman,"  Anne  Gilchrist,  the  sweet 
English  widow  who  was  now  staying  with  her 
children  in  Philadelphia,  to  be  within  easy  reach 
of  Whitman.  '  'Among  the  perfect  women  I  have 
known  (and  it  has  been  very  unspeakable  good 
fortune  to  have  had  the  very  best  for  mother, 
sisters  and  friends),  I  have  known  none  more 
perfect,"  wrote  the  poet,  "than  my  dear,  dear 
friend,  Anne  Gilchrist."  It  was  this  warm 
hearted,  courageous  Englishwoman,  "alive  with 
humour  and  vivacity,"  whose  musical  voice  was 


THE  MAN-OF-WAR  BIRD. 

Thou  born  to  match  the  gale,  (thou  art  all  wings,) 
To  cope  with  heaven  and  earth  and  sea  and  hurricane, 
Thou  ship  of  air  that  never  furl'st  thy  sails, 
Days,  even  weeks  un  tired  and  on  ward,  through  spaces, 

realms  gyrating, 

At  dusk  that  look'st  on  Senegal,  at  morn  America, 
That  sport'st  amid  the  lightning-flash  and  thunder 
cloud, 

In  them,  in  thy  experiences,  had'st  thou  my  soul, 
What  joys  !  what  joys  were  thine  ! 

(To  the  Man-of-  War  Bird.) 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

shortly  heard  outside,  enquiring  for  Walt.     He 
hastened  down  to  receive  her. 

Anne  Gilchrist's  opinion  of  Whitman  was 
even  more  enthusiastic  than  his  appreciation  of 
her.  She  admired  and  revered  the  courage 
with  which  he  expounded  his  theories  of  life, 
no  less  than  the  expression  of  them  in  words 
which,  as  she  put  it,  ceased  to  be  words  and 
became  electric  streams.  "What  more  can 
you  ask  of  the  words  of  a  man's  mouth,"  she 
exclaimed,  "  than  that  they  should  absorb  into 
you  as  food  and  air,  to  reappear  again  in  your 
strength,  gait,  face — that  they  should  be  fibre 
and  filter  to  your  blood,  joy  and  gladness  to 
your  whole  nature?  "  She  alone,  of  all  women, 
and  almost  alone  among  men,  had  stood  forth 
to  defend  him  for  the  "fearless  and  compre 
hensive  dealing  with  reality  *  which  had 
alienated  the  conventional  and  offended  the 
prudish — and  she  alone  was  the  recipient,  now, 
of  his  most  intimate  thoughts  and  aspirations. 

They  sat  together  on  the  shady  piazza,  and 
he  unfolded  to  her,  while  her  children  played 
around,  the  hopes  and  wishes  of  his  heart  not 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

only  for  America  but  for  all  humanity.  He 
said,  "My  original  idea  was  that  if  I  could 
bring  men  together  by  putting  before  them  the 
heart  of  man  with  all  its  joys  and  sorrows  and 
experiences  and  surroundings,  it  would  be  a 

great  thing I  have  endeavoured  from 

the  first  to  get  free  as  much  as  possible  from  all 
literary  attitudinism — to  strip  off  integuments, 
coverings,  bridges — and  to  speak  straight  from 
and  to  the  heart ;  ...  to  discard  all  conven 
tional  poetic  phrases,  and  every  touch  of  or 
reference  to  ancient  or  mediaeval  images, 
metaphors,  subjects,  styles,  etc.,  and  to  write 
de  novo  with  words  and  phrases  appropriate  to 
our  own  days."  He  took  her  hand  as  he  spoke, 
as  was  his  wont  with  a  sympathetic  listener,  and 
gazed  with  eagerness  into  her  serious  yet  easily- 
lighted  face.  His  * '  terrible  blaze  of  personality  " 
was  subdued  for  the  nonce  into  that  child-like 
simplicity,  that  woman-like  tenderness,  which 
constituted  some  of  his  chief  charms. 

They  discussed  the  work  of  contemporary 
poets,  English  and  American.  Whitman, 
however  much  he  differed  from  these  in  theory 
and  method,  gave  generous  homage  to  their 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

varied  genius.  He  loved  to  declaim  the  Ulysses 
and  kindred  majestically-rolling  passages  of 
Tennyson,  in  a  clear,  strong,  rugged  tone, 
devoid  of  all  elocutionary  tricks  or  affectation. 
He  never  spoke  a  line  of  his  own  verse,  but  to 
recite  from  Shakespeare  was  a  great  pleasure 
to  him  :  and  he  compared  the  Shakespearean 
plays  to  large,  rich,  splendid  tapestry,  like 
Raffaelle's  historical  cartoons,  where  everything 
is  broad  and  colossal.  For  Scott,  whose  work, 
he  said,  breathed  more  of  the  open  air  than  the 
workshop,  he  had  unfeigned  admiration. 
Dramatic  work  and  music  in  all  its  forms 
he  discussed  with  knowledge  and  fervour.  As 
for  the  poets  of  America,  he  poured  encomium 
upon  them  ungrudgingly.  "I  can't  imagine 
any  better  luck  befalling  these  States  for  a 
poetical  beginning  and  initiation  than  has 
come  from  Emerson,  Longfellow,  Bryant  and 
Whittier."  (Specimen  Days.) 

The  afternoon  shadows  stretched  them 
selves  out,  and  at  sunset  Mrs.  Gilchrist  and  her 
children  departed.  It  had  been  for  her  a 
memorable  afternoon  :  and  Whitman  had  been 
thoroughly  in  his  element  as  comrade  of  so 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

congenial  a  soul.  Now,  as  the  twilight  deepened, 
he  devoted  himself  to  the  consideration  of  the 
deepest  notes  in  the  whole  diapason  of  human 
existence.  Never  was  a  man  of  more  exuberant 
a  joy  in  life :  never  one  who  gazed  more  courage 
ously  into  the  dim-veiled  face  of  Death, — the 
sower  of  all  enigmas,  the  comforter  of  all  pain. 

Whispers    of   heavenly    death,    murmur'd 

I  hear  ; 

Labial  gossip  of  night — sibilant  chorals ; 
Footsteps      gently      ascending  —  mystical 

breezes,  wafted  soft  and  low.     .     .     . 

(Did  you  think  Life  was  so  well  provided 
for — and  Death,  the  purport  of  all  Life, 
is  not  well  provided  for  ?  )  .  .  . 

I  do  not  doubt  that  whatever  can  possibly 
happen,  any  where,  at  any  time,  is  pro 
vided  for,  in  the  inherences  of  things ; 

I  do  not  think  Life  provides  for  all,  and  for 
Time  and  Space — but  I  believe  Heavenly 
Death  provides  for  all. 

(Whispers  of  Heavenly  Death.) 

And  his  heart  once  more,  as  in  the  match 
less  threnody  for  Lincoln,  When  Lilacs  last  in  the 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT     WHITMAN. 

dooryard  bloomed,  uttered  its  song  of  summons 
and  of  welcome. 

Gome,  lovely  and  soothing  Death, 
Undulate  round  the  world,  serenely  arriv 
ing,  arriving, 

In  the  day,  in  the  night,  to  all,  to  each, 
Sooner  or  later,  delicate  Death.     .     .     . 

Dark  Mother,   always  gliding  near,    with 

soft  feet, 
Have  none  chanted  for  thee  a  chant  of 

fullest  welcome  ? 
Then  I  chant  it  for  thee — I   glorify  thee 

above  all. 

The  skies  deepened  into  purple,  and  the 
march  of  the  stars  began  :  it  was  the  sacredest 
hour  of  the  day  to  Whitman,  a  period  con 
secrated  and  set  apart  above  all.  "  I  am 
convinced,"  thought  he,  "that  there  are  hours 
of  Nature,  especially  of  the  atmosphere, 
mornings  and  evenings,  addressed  to  the  soul. 
Night  transcends,  for  that  purpose,  what  the 
proudest  day  can  do."  (Specimen  Days.) 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

And  a  new  buoyancy  quickened  in  his  soul ; 
the  indomitable  spirit  of  enterprise  revived 
within  him.  Now,  at  eleven  at  night,  he  was 
more  exhilarated  in  mind  than  his  body  had 
been  in  the  blue  July  morning  :  and,  casting 
one  comprehensive  glance  upon  the  burning 
arcana  of  the  heavens,  that  he  might  carry  into 
his  sleep  a  memory  of  that  glory,  he  "  desired 
a  better  country,"  with  longing  and  deep 
solicitude. 

Bathe  me,    O    God,    in    Thee,    mounting 

to  Thee, 
I  and  my  soul  to  range  in  range  of  Thee ! 


Passage  to  more  than  India  ! 

O  secret  of  the  earth  and  sky  ! 

Of  you,  O  waters  of  the  sea !    O  winding 

creeks  and  rivers  ! 
Of  you,  O  woods  and  fields !  Of  you,  strong 

mountains  of  my  land  ! 
Of  you,  O  prairies !  Of  you,  gray  rocks  ! 
O  morning  red !  O  clouds!  O  rain  and  snows! 
O  day  and  night,  passage  to  you  ! 


A    DAY    WITH    WALT    WHITMAN. 

O  sun  and  moon,  and  all  you  stars  !   Sirius 

and  Jupiter  ! 
Passage  to  you !    .     .     » 

O  my  brave  soul ! 

O  farther,  farther  sail ! 

O  daring  joy,  but  safe !   Are  they  not  all 

the  seas  of  God  ? 
O  farther,  farther,  farther  sail ! 

(Passage  to  India.) 


Printed  by  Percy  Lund,  Humphries  &  Co.  Ltd., 

Bradford  and  London.  4887 


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